Master would be irate.
He touches my face with his hand, my body flinches. “Sit still. Girl.”
Two statements, firm. There’s something in the way he says it that makes me feel adolescent. He pulls the straw out of my mouth and turns my chin so that I’m looking at him again. The stool swivels, taking the rest of me to face him. It’s then I realize I am squeezing my thighs together so tightly the muscles are beginning to twitch. My skirt, although draping my knees, does not feel long enough. He parts my lips with his thumb and pushes it into my mouth.
His thumb tastes faintly of tobacco but I suck anyway. The ice cubes in my drink rattle and turn in the glass I am shaking in my hands that are giving me away. My eyes can’t close and now he is smiling in a way that winners do, still no kindness.
Breathe.
He slowly pushes his thumb toward the back of my throat. I take care to lighten the scrape of my teeth over the bump of his knuckle. When my lips meet his hand I begin to choke and automatically reach for his wrist. “Uh, uh, uh,” he corrects, shaking his head, fingers now firm and pressing painfully into my jaw. My thighs clench again and there is a heat between them I know he must be able to feel.
Obediently, I put my hand back on my glass and the cubes return to their rotation.
I relax my throat, as I know how to do, as I have been taught. I feel my knees creating an inviting distance between them. He whispers, “Good girl,” and pulls his thumb back slowly. I hold it with my tongue as it moves; my eyes steady with his. “Yeah, that’s a girl.” He pushes it back in and I take it, tight and gentle. I now think he is considering me for a Roamer or a Subjected; I am hoping for the latter.
The hum of the bar has shifted now as the Keepers finalize their Coveted classifications. Dispatchers leave the walls and walk, waiting to be called. The tension is palpable but I keep my focus. It is important.
When the first scream breaks the drone I flinch involuntarily; my head begins to turn toward the noise, but I remember myself and freeze. The terror inside the pitch of the girl’s screams dwarfs any of the screams made by the animals used during the Trials. To compare them would be laughable. I could never be prepared for this sound or for what I know is coming. I want her to stop. I want to plug my ears. I do not. I can’t.
My Keeper raises his free hand and now I know it is my turn and I brace myself as calmly as I can. A Dispatcher drags the screaming girl next to our stools. My Keeper tells the Dispatcher to begin and he does. I hold my eyes to my Keeper’s and he raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, waiting for me to fail, but I don’t, even when he tells me to watch. I continue taking his thumb like a lover while the Dispatcher breaks the girl. A few minutes pass before my Keeper nods his head and dismisses the Dispatcher, who lets the girl’s body fall to the floor, useless.
When the gun goes off there are reflexive screams from many of the Coveted, but not me. I am still busy with my mouth and tongue. “Good girl,” he says, praising my focus. I want to smile, but cannot. I know my Trial Master would be proud. More Dispatchers begin making some of the failed Coveted succumb and I don’t react. Their Buyers will be upset. I am again thankful I didn’t scream.
“You are doing well.” He pulls his thumb out of my mouth and rubs its slick wetness all over my lips, pushing them like clay, smearing them slippery. I close my eyes and make no attempt to stifle a moan.
He sees this. He knows. He laughs. “I have made a good investment.” And then, “Your testing is over.”
He tells me to stay and I do. When he comes back he takes my hand and brings me to my feet. I am careful to bypass the girl, but I cannot avoid what has come out of her. I do not look behind me, but imagine the tracks my shoes must be making in my wake.
We stop at
He touches my face with his hand, my body flinches. “Sit still. Girl.”
Two statements, firm. There’s something in the way he says it that makes me feel adolescent. He pulls the straw out of my mouth and turns my chin so that I’m looking at him again. The stool swivels, taking the rest of me to face him. It’s then I realize I am squeezing my thighs together so tightly the muscles are beginning to twitch. My skirt, although draping my knees, does not feel long enough. He parts my lips with his thumb and pushes it into my mouth.
His thumb tastes faintly of tobacco but I suck anyway. The ice cubes in my drink rattle and turn in the glass I am shaking in my hands that are giving me away. My eyes can’t close and now he is smiling in a way that winners do, still no kindness.
Breathe.
He slowly pushes his thumb toward the back of my throat. I take care to lighten the scrape of my teeth over the bump of his knuckle. When my lips meet his hand I begin to choke and automatically reach for his wrist. “Uh, uh, uh,” he corrects, shaking his head, fingers now firm and pressing painfully into my jaw. My thighs clench again and there is a heat between them I know he must be able to feel.
Obediently, I put my hand back on my glass and the cubes return to their rotation.
I relax my throat, as I know how to do, as I have been taught. I feel my knees creating an inviting distance between them. He whispers, “Good girl,” and pulls his thumb back slowly. I hold it with my tongue as it moves; my eyes steady with his. “Yeah, that’s a girl.” He pushes it back in and I take it, tight and gentle. I now think he is considering me for a Roamer or a Subjected; I am hoping for the latter.
The hum of the bar has shifted now as the Keepers finalize their Coveted classifications. Dispatchers leave the walls and walk, waiting to be called. The tension is palpable but I keep my focus. It is important.
When the first scream breaks the drone I flinch involuntarily; my head begins to turn toward the noise, but I remember myself and freeze. The terror inside the pitch of the girl’s screams dwarfs any of the screams made by the animals used during the Trials. To compare them would be laughable. I could never be prepared for this sound or for what I know is coming. I want her to stop. I want to plug my ears. I do not. I can’t.
My Keeper raises his free hand and now I know it is my turn and I brace myself as calmly as I can. A Dispatcher drags the screaming girl next to our stools. My Keeper tells the Dispatcher to begin and he does. I hold my eyes to my Keeper’s and he raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, waiting for me to fail, but I don’t, even when he tells me to watch. I continue taking his thumb like a lover while the Dispatcher breaks the girl. A few minutes pass before my Keeper nods his head and dismisses the Dispatcher, who lets the girl’s body fall to the floor, useless.
When the gun goes off there are reflexive screams from many of the Coveted, but not me. I am still busy with my mouth and tongue. “Good girl,” he says, praising my focus. I want to smile, but cannot. I know my Trial Master would be proud. More Dispatchers begin making some of the failed Coveted succumb and I don’t react. Their Buyers will be upset. I am again thankful I didn’t scream.
“You are doing well.” He pulls his thumb out of my mouth and rubs its slick wetness all over my lips, pushing them like clay, smearing them slippery. I close my eyes and make no attempt to stifle a moan.
He sees this. He knows. He laughs. “I have made a good investment.” And then, “Your testing is over.”
He tells me to stay and I do. When he comes back he takes my hand and brings me to my feet. I am careful to bypass the girl, but I cannot avoid what has come out of her. I do not look behind me, but imagine the tracks my shoes must be making in my wake.
We stop at
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